


IN TOW

by Grondfic



Category: Five Red Herrings - Sayers, Lord Peter Wimsey - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Uncategorized fandoms - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins in a Nameless Castle somewhere in SW Scotland during the autumn of 1930. Something of a nightmare-fantasy is taking place.</p><p>What has this to do with the disastrous falling-out of old friends Hugh Farren and Henry Strachan in the aftermath of the Campbell murder investigation?</p><p>This story takes place in the same Wimsey-world as <i>Fourth Herring</i>, but can be read independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All chapter-heading quotes are from _Five Red Herrings_

**Title: IN TOW   
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Henry Strachan, Hugh Farren  
**Rating**: Raw   
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

_"… Not knowing who he was made it better. Do you know, I hadn't been in a side-car before. It's not like a car ….. I like being driven – and the side-car business gets my imagination. The power is outside you, and you are being pulled along – in tow so to speak. Like being eloped with."_

From _Five Red Herrings_, Ch title: _Farren's Story_.

* * * *

**Part 1: Guelda's Story**

The Man had taken himself off for a stolen day's fishing, locking all outer doors firmly behind him.

Guelda, left in unaccustomed solitude, spent some time wandering aimlessly between the restricted number of rooms she was allowed into; somewhat at a loss – now that the glamour and violence had been removed – as to how to occupy her time.

"Try the studio; why don't you?" The Man had flung over his shoulder as – rods in one hand and waders in the other – he'd grappled the last door open, "No! Don't come near!" he'd added as Guelda had moved forward to help.

So now Guelda – all obedience even in The Man's absence – glided silently through the arched and open doorway, into a stately panelled room with blank windowless walls and glassed ceiling.

She blinked a little at the unyielding contrast between light and shade – the savage sunlight splashing up one wall like the effluvium from a _pissoir_, or pooling on the floor; whilst the cast-shadows crept like reivers into the fastness of the rest of the room.

The place was littered with the detritus of random arts and crafts. A spinning-wheel and weaving-loom projected from the ghostly shadows like two-thirds of the Fates. In a further corner, the tools of the knitting-woman's trade lay forlorn, like a nest of mating adders.

But there – beneath the urine-yellow beams of the stormy autumn sun – lay an artist's palette, brushes, knife and a generous selection of Windsor and Newton paint-tubes. A closer inspection yielded charcoal, pencils, sketch-pads; even a primed canvas ….

Guelda tied back the Pre-Raphaelite glory of her auburn locks, and girded up her loose muslin gown. She could now barely feel a whisper of The Man's passion across her abused hindquarters; neither across the buttocks, nor … within. Even the sore nipples were relatively quiescent against the fragile fabric of the dress.

Guelda began cautiously with a few pencil sketches, her rather protuberant blue eyes close to the paper. Her fingers, (accustomed to a more uncompromising and wider style) were cramped tight on the pencil as she swept the graphite across the rough surface of the cartridge-paper with a prolonged and satisfying scritch. If one left the wrist loose, she discovered; a pleasing design of wide arcs and curlicues might be achieved.

Scenes and dialogues replayed themselves over and again in the blank darkness behind her eyes like a talking picture-show. Images spilled over, became captured and were trapped within the curves on the paper…….

* * * *

_"What in hell ….? Oh, it's you, Farren! Drunk again, I see!"_

_"S'no business o' yoursh if I am, Shtrachan! Thish fishing hut'sh f-free to ANYONE! I'd have been away out of all thish if you hadn't made such a messh with your evidence …. AND you vishited Gilda alone in the evening – what were you thinking, man? – ash if I couldn't guessh!""_

_"So this is all the thanks I get for covering your trail! Not to mention that black eye you gave me! It was damned embarrassing having to lie to Wimsey; and then corroborate your statement to that sadistic old brute of a Chief Constable!"_

_"Ye shouldn'ta tried to shtop me! And …."_

_"And as for that frigid, sharp-tongued bitch of a wife of yours – who do you think I am, Hugh? Campbell? I HAD to go down and warn her! I wouldn't TOUCH ……"_

_"BASTARD!"_

_"Oh – would you now? Stand still, damn you! I'll not let you black my other eye – believe it! Behave, or I'll break your arm – yes, I can do it, Hugh! Now … that's much better! I don't know what you deserve I should do with you … hey! Stand still! BEHAVE – or I'll tan your backside with the cane handle from the fishing net … HEY! Blast ! Alright, Hugh – you asked for this!"_

_"CHRIST …. Who d'ye think I am, Henry? Your fag at Harrow? Or your bit-of-rough at Cambridge? Damn You! ARGH! DON'T …..! Don't stop ….!"_

* * * *

_"Hello? This is Hugh Farren speaking. I was told there's a message; and to come to the pub and wait for the call …"_

_"The fishermen's hut!"_

_"Beg pardon?"_

_"Don't pretend you've forgotten! Be there, Friday at dusk with all your fishing gear – not that you'll have much use for it – except possibly that cane handle! Tell that bitch you'll be away on a week's trip!"_

_"This is outrageous! WHO is this?"_

_"Oh come, Hugh! You know perfectly well. The Man, of course!"_

* * * *

Guelda had traced the broken narrative through a series of phantasmagorical images by the time the light failed. So deep had she sunk into her sub-creation that The Man's return caught her in ambush, all unprepared; and in the wrong location.

* * * *

**Part 2: Strachan's Story**

Henry Strachan generally took to the streams with rods and waders as a means of relaxation from his busy life; and to get himself out of the way of the domestic routine when it became too full of the sort of trivia he detested.

The situation now was, he reflected, none so different. Following the motorcycle elopement, and two days of relentless Domination (congenial though that might be to one of his temperament) he felt the urgent need for renewal and solitude.

Today's catch had been moderately satisfactory! He would be able to hand-in two reasonably-sized trout to the commissariat; and request them to be served grilled with new potatoes and peas, at 7.30 (together with a lively glass or two of St Aubin) via the dumb waiter as usual. He'd enjoy it fresh; and be damned if it was cold by the time he'd hand-fed it to Guelda in the privacy of The Master Bedroom later on!

This whole charade had entailed a huge amount of time, trouble and expense! The hire charges on the motorcycle and side-car alone (being top-quality of course) had set him back a cool sixty guineas! However, he'd discovered such a thrill in sitting astride the magnificent beast (his helpless passenger secured into the side-car by leather straps; head swathed in blindfold, goggles and helmet) that he rather suspected he might want to buy the machine outright from Messrs. Sparkes and Crisp, once this adventure was over.

He'd used The Beast today, as a matter of fact, to take himself to a remote spot well beyond the usual haunts of the Kirkcudbright painting and fishing community.

Like Hugh Farren during the getaway, he'd enjoyed the raw power; but whilst Farren had found his thrills in being towed along, Strachan much preferred to be master of the throbbing machine!

He supposed he was grateful to Farren for the indirect introduction to motorcycles. If Strachan hadn't been so determined to resolve the quarrel between them that had somehow sprung up after The Campbell Affair, he might never have approached Inspector Macpherson, and later phoned Lord Peter Wimsey, in order to find out exactly what Farren had been up to during his ill-fated bid for freedom.

Thus, he had become possessed of the motorcycle-story; and had made the fateful phone call that would inaugurate his new role as The Man.

* * * *

_"Henry, I'm not sure .... after last time ...."_

_"Shut up! And you DON'T call me by name. I'm The Man! Give me all your clothes and the fishing gear! Whilst I'm away stowing them, you must decide on what to wear; and on which of these hair-pieces you want! When I get back, I need a female name and identity for you! The motorcycle's outside ..."_

_"Motorcycle?" _

_"And sidecar! You're about to be eloped with, Hugh! Now - you choose the maiden-in-distress who'll be going with me ...."_

_* * * *_

_"Oh, very Burne Jones – just like your bitch of a wife! And the name?"_

_"Guelda!"_

_"Tcha! I might have known! Alright, but you're aware, I hope, that you haven't made it any easier on yourself by choosing to become your wife! You've invoked power-beyond, Hugh, and by God, you're going to get it!"_

_"How did you know about that ....?"_

_"Be QUIET! No questions; and from now on you don't speak - you don't do ANYTHING - without permission! Now - bend over, and hike up the Pre-Raphaelite flow of that grass-green sark a bit abune your arse! I've a willow-wand here, to teach you the meaning of ... pliability!"_

* * * *

That had been two - no! - three days ago. In that intervening time, Henry felt he'd earned his day's fishing!

* * * *

**From: Notes for an Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose**

**#1 The Abduction of Persephone in the Field of Poppies** (pencil study for later oil on canvas of the same name)

Centre-Right: the figure of Dis astride a fabulous beast (part fish, part serpent, and part mechanical).

Centre-Left: seated in poppy-wreathed floating chariot (attached by gauze ribbons, cloud-trails and light-beams to The Beast) – Persephone; nude, blindfolded, auburn hair in disarray.

Background: fields of corn and scarlet poppies, behind which the hills retreat into a shadowy distance and meld with a sky presaging storm. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: IN TOW   
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Henry Strachan, Hugh Farren  
**Rating**: Metamorphic   
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

_"No wonder Farren's landscapes looked as if they were painted with an axe. The man had no delicacy. His reds and blues hurt your eyes, and he saw life in reds and blues."_   
From _Five Red Herrings_, Ch. Title: _Campbell Quick_

_"Here's Farren – view of the roofs of Kirkcudbright complete with Tolbooth, looking like Noah's Ark built out of nursery bricks – vermilion, Naples yellow, ultramarine – sophisticated naiveté and no cast shadows."_   
From _Five Red Herrings_, Ch. Title: _Graham_

(Two comments on Hugh Farren's painting style; one from an avowed enemy; and the other from a slightly malicious, but essentially neutral observer)

* * * *

**Part 3: Farren's Story**

There was only a very tiny slice of time each evening when Hugh Farren was truly himself in this phantasmagorical world of ecstasy and humiliating pain. He was inhabiting it now, in the few short moments before he was required to lace himself into Guelda's excruciating evening-wear corsetry, and resume the auburn wig.

His arse was bleeding again. Why, oh WHY had Guelda managed to get herself caught out-of-time, out-of-place, in the studio? The Man had let his arrogant glance wander over the disorder in the room, her rumpled clothing and paint-stained visage; and promptly ordered her over the painful nubs of the spinning wheel, legs wantonly splayed. The spindle had provided a handy (and apposite) instrument of chastisement.

Thereafter, the intrusion of The Man, entering her in agonising ownership, left her breached, bleeding, exhausted and blissfully replete, as she sought cleansing in the generously-proportioned bath; and became, by slow degrees, Hugh Farren once more.

The studio-day was a vague blur of graphite and gaseous colour. What embarrassments; he wondered; had Guelda wrought? And what punishments might The Man devise?

Perhaps it would be that spindle-business again! It was odd just how _familiar_ those things had been …… almost as if Gilda (with her spinning and weaving crafts) had been there in the room, watching and condoning …….

Hugh, caught in the act of clambering from the bath, gave a guilty start. Gilda! His pure, Pre-Raphaelite, morally-upright, hardworking wife! His soul-mate whom he adored … except …..

(_"Frigid bitch!" ….._ )

She and old Strachan would never get on together … and now ….

Hugh had finished up in front of the full-length mirror, its ornate gilt frame (supported on the backs of two heavy-breasted Sphinxes) composed of writhing female forms intertwined with mating serpents.

He regarded himself as he appeared now; naked but for a towel slung low on his hips. His damp yellow hair might easily be grown longer to produce a more androgynous appearance, even in his everyday life. He was lucky that it had not begun to thin once he'd turned thirty!

A strict and narrow diet over the last few Guelda-days had startlingly reduced hips and stomach to a svelte and flattened line; whilst the ridged planes of his chest accentuated the bruised and permanently-tight buds of his nipples.

However, his shoulders would always have the appearance of a Festival-day wrestler from a sheep-shearing community. He was cursed with the obvious virile strength that lay dormant there. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the imbalance between Male and Female might serve to excite The Man.

Languidly he lifted the full hairpiece in all its auburn glory; its tone exactly matching the deep swirls of his wife's luxuriant locks. It needed careful attention and precise adjustment each evening, before he could once again become Guelda.

The other night, when The Man had drawn the long strands sensuously across Guelda's straining throat, and pulled them tight, the tiny bit of Hugh that observed the scenario was nervously terrified that the whole hairpiece might loosen under such treatment, and pull free; leaving him exposed. No longer Guelda, but halfway-Hugh, accepting the rough attentions, not of The Man, but rather of his lifelong friend Henry Strachan!

"FARREN!"

The mesmeric action of brush on hairpiece was halted in abrupt surprise by the bellow from below. Hugh Farren's hand, suspended over the fake tangles, wavered and dropped to his side.

"Strachan? Is that you?"

* * * *

**From: Notes for an Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose**

**#5 Frozen Desire** (oil on canvas)

An Alpine landscape; foreground comprising the width of a huge glacier that recedes into a rocky distance. A twisted, leafless tree thrusts up through the ice. A female figure strains her torso outwards, like a bow; her red hair entwined in the branches. She wears a loose dark robe in some flowing material that leaves her breasts bare, nipples jutting in the icy air.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: IN TOW   
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Henry Strachan, Hugh Farren  
**Rating**: Aesthetic  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

_"No – don't pinch it, or you'll get it all over you. Yes, you can put the cap on. Yes, that's to keep it from drying up. Yes, put it back in the box … That's yellow. No, I know there isn't any yelllow in the picture but I want to mix it with the green to make it brighter. You'll see. Don't forget the cap."_

(A glimpse of Hugh Farren's painting method, from _Five Red Herrings_, Ch. Title: _Farren's Story_)

* * * *

**Part 4: The Story of a Dinner-date**

"Come down here! You have to see this!"

"What is it, Strachan? Is the charade finished now? Do we go home?"

"What? Tired of it already, man? No - come into the studio ….."

Farren, stepping over the threshold in his own persona, stopped dead; dismayed by the abandoned, capless paint-tubes and the uncleaned brushes left to dry out and stiffen into uselessness. With an exclamation of distress, he hurried forward to rectify matters.

"Christ! No wonder you called me down! This is …."

"Oh, leave it, Farren! If you don't know by now that Guelda's a slattern, you're deeper into Dissociation than I thought! However …… "

"No, wait! You know I won't settle until this is tidied! Just – give me a few minutes, will you, old fellow?"

"Oh, very well! I was about to ask you down for dinner, but now I may as well go and get it put back by about half an hour! Did anyone ever tell you what a _prima donna_ you are, Farren? I'd feel sorry for your wife, if I didn't know she's even more finicky than you are! Don't be too long!"

* * * *

Hugh lay back in the sinful luxury of the easy-chair and sipped delicately.

"Hmm. Single-malt, obviously! Vintage too – it has the mellowness of a cask-aged whisky. Not Bladnoch! Nor from Islay, I think. It's not Granny Fleeming's moonlight, is it? Thank CHRIST the Constabulary didn't cotton on to that, whilst they were nosing around … No, I have to give up on this one, Henry! What is it?"

"Arran! Waters dropped by there during his ill-fated yachting expedition; and wasn't too sea-sick to order a dozen or so! They arrived last week. What do you think, Hugh?"

"Nectar! Perfect nectar! And the dinner - the trout was beyond praise! Now then, having been fortified by all these delicacies and temporarily in my right mind, I suppose I'd better face up to Guelda's daytime idiocy! What d'you want to show me?"

"Well Hugh, I have to admit to a bit of a surprise. Here – whilst you were tidying the studio, I took the opportunity of arranging these. You – that is, Guelda – managed a couple of oil sketches towards the end of the day, I'd guess. And rather a lot of preliminary work in pencil and charcoal."

Hugh rose, a trifle reluctantly. This was partly to do with leaving the comfort of the chair; but also involved a faint distaste at being confronted with his _alter ego_ so directly.

* * * *

Henry watched him carefully as he approached the sheets, spread rather precariously over a number of occasional-tables and propped at acute angles on the seats of dining chairs. Farren was a temperamental devil, with an occasional suicide-fixation; and it would be awkward if there were to be a noisy Scene under these peculiar conditions!

Hugh gasped; and then froze, staring down at the papers with those intense, compelling, light eyes of his.

Henry gave him a few moments, then rose and strolled over to stand beside his friend.

"D-did I do this?" asked Hugh hesitantly.

"Guelda did them. You've no memory of the day at all?"

"Oh yes! I remember Guelda constructing this story; but ….. "

"… you weren't aware exactly how she told it?" hazarded Henry.

"She …. The style's nothing like mine, is it?"

"No. And that's what makes it so fascinating! Umm, Hugh - are you aware that some of these are highly commercial?"

"What?"

"Listen a moment! You can take all the time you want to study everything in detail in a while. You know I work as an illustrator from time to time? Well, I can tell you that some authors I know would give their eye-teeth for some of these! You've caught – that is, GUELDA's caught – the current craze for fairy-tale and Celtic-twilight styles. And yet – there's a .. I don't know …. hard, crazy edge to some of this stuff. More like what they're doing on the Continent!"

"Surrealisme; and maybe the Symbolist/Art Nouveau axis, Henry! Some of these stylised female forms remind me of Toorop. And Beardsley's in there somewhere too! Even Blake! I say, it's all a bit yellow-90s, isn't it?"

"Imph'mm! There are also several that I could get buyers for privately …. In certain circles! You understand, Hugh?"

"No! Wait! Some of these are going nowhere!"

"Of course!" replied Henry soothingly, "But – y'know, Hugh – an extra source of cash wouldn't come amiss, now would it? You can't live off Gilda's woven scarves forever, can you?"

"Shut UP! I pay my way! And …."

"Gently, now, Hugh! I can't sustain another black eye! Fellows will start thinking I'm losing my grip on the golf balls; or that Milly's started knocking me about!"

Hugh laughed, a trifle maliciously.

"Oh, very likely! Alright, but leave Gilda out of this, old fellow; and let's concentrate on Guelda!"

"It's a bargain!" replied Henry in some relief.

* * * *

**From: Notes for an Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose**

**#7 The Blaeberry King** (egg tempera on parchment)

A number of exquisite vignettes surrounding a central panel in the form of a scroll containing a short verse:

_The Westmuir King frae Elfland rises; so –  
That Autumn's Bounty spreads o'er a' the land  
His luscious blaeberries in triumph stand  
And pull the vanquished bramble-maid in tow!_

Top panel: taking up the complete width of the composition, a male figure in horizontal flight. Loose robe in blue/purple flows back to reveal naked torso. Head garlanded with sprigs of blaeberry and golden autumn fern. Vague suggestion of wings melding into storm-clouds at his back.

Bottom panel: below decorative side-borders (blaeberry, bracken, ling) a nude, auburn-haired woman lies supine, bound to the ground beneath by her spread hair, and by trails of strategically-placed fruiting blackberry-thorn.


	4. Chapter 4

_**IN TOW: Episode 4: Wimsey-world Slashfic**_  
**Title: IN TOW   
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Henry Strachan, Hugh Farren  
**Rating**: Contemplative  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

_" … but I'm always seeing things I hadn't noticed before. I get the fun of having perpetual surprises"_

Strachan on himself.  
_Five Red Herrings_, Ch. Title: _Lord Peter Wimsey_

* * * *

**Part 5: A Tale by Firelight**

Hugh, exhausted, disoriented, and more than a little tipsy, fell into bed in the Master Bedroom – still thankfully in his own persona.

The whole Guelda thing was spiraling out of his control; which would have been alright had he been certain that The Man was properly in control of Guelda. However, since Henry had suddenly turned up instead, and inaugurated a pretty fine old-pals' reunion, Hugh was much less sure of how the land lay.

Glad though he was for the respite however, he found himself extremely reluctant to abandon the Guelda-persona.

It was perverse – he knew – to crave the razor-kiss of the lash on buttocks and back, the hollow nauseous thud of the paddle on ribs and thighs, and the subsequent rough, dry, forced entry; whilst crudely approximating his exquisite wife.

But somehow Henry – The Man – had fathomed this deep submerged need in him; had brought it screaming to fruition in the dim light of the fisherman's hut by the Fleet.

That was simple enough, as far as it went; but now it appeared that Guelda – like Gilda, and like Hugh himself – was a creative. With a commercial value!

She could be Guelder Rose, he thought; drowsily pleased with the conceit. A recluse – obviously; so no public appearances …. It might be fun ….. keeping up the pretense with old Strachan ….. and The Man, of course … no Guelda-art without The Man ……

* * * *

The oil-lamp was guttering to finality when Strachan slid through the door and latched it quietly. The fire in the ample hearth, however, threw enough light to show him Hugh's tousled hair on the pillow. The man was sunk deep in slumber already!

Strachan ignored the sudden clenching of muscle in his chest. He didn't need to be here, after all! There was a perfectly decent single room awaiting him down a short flight of stairs. He'd nested Guelda in here because he knew that most of the Drama would be enacted in this huge, theatrical, circular Master-bedroom that encompassed the full circumference of the tower.

However, the room was at present extremely welcoming! Hugh, sleeping like a carefree child looked so … _vulnerable_ that he felt it his duty to abandon the cold, straight bed below.

Actually, vulnerable wasn't quite the correct word. Hugh asleep actually looked almost … cuddly, in a way that even his little Myra could not quite match. Certainly Milly – in voluminous night-dress and pin-stuck curlers, came very low on the cuddle-meter compared with Hugh right now!

Strachan extinguished the last glimmer of the lamp and, in the warm pink flicker of firelight, made such haste with his _toilette_ that he was soon beneath the bedclothes curled protectively around Hugh's broad and comforting back.

* * * *

**Part 6: A Dawn Story**

Hugh jolted awake from a jumbled dream wherein the dark glamour of goblin-fruit burned itself away to coal-ash. A thin dawn had penetrated the shutters and was now troubling his eyes with narrow spears of light.

He grunted discontentedly, and blundered out to the bathroom.

He inferred, from the lack of blood in the toilet bowl, that he was substantially healed within; although the welts across his buttocks and thighs still produced a tingling thrill of discomfort if prodded at just the right angle.

Ablutions complete, Hugh stumbled back to the bedroom, his brain again submerging in a pleasant haze of blank disengagement.

The narrow shafts of light had shifted and strengthened. They now touched the burnished surface of the mirror; and Hugh spent several minutes squinting over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the current state of his arse.

"Does that still hurt?"

Hugh started violently, and swiveled his head smartly to the front. Strachan's impressive length was occupying the other half of the bed, shoulders half-propped against the satin-padded headboard.

"H-have you been there all night?" Hugh ventured.

"Imph'mmm. Just thought I'd check up on you; and the bed looked so damned comfortable! Besides, we weren't quite finished last night, don't you think? Still some things to mull over! And you haven't answered the question – are you still in pain?"

Hugh gave a lopsided grin.

"Just a little! Enough to feel pretty fine about it, as a matter of fact!"

Strachan's face relaxed into an austere smile.

"We aim to please! It's early yet. Why don't you come back to bed?"

"Umm. It's chilly out here. I'll be cold."

"So – I'm warned! I'll take it out on Guelda's hide later, if necessary. Come on, Hugh!"

Hugh paused; considering whether Guelda with a freshly-tanned hide would produce better, or worse, works of art.

"What is it? You've squinched your eyes up and produced your best pout."

"Sorry! Just wondering about Guelda's art work."

"I should leave her alone if I were you!" advised Strachan in his most sergeant-majorish voice, "I … that is, The Man … can deal with her without you niggling at her like a loose tooth, Hugh! Here – it's barely seven! You could take another half-hour's snooze if you like! I'll warm that tender bum of yours!"

Hugh slid obediently back beneath the bedclothes, reflecting that silk sheets were undoubtedly an improvement on the darned flannel he encountered regularly at home.

* * * *

**From: Notes for an Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose**

**#9 Firelight and Dawn** (Oil sketch)

A _faux_ oriental composition after the manner of Bakst's designs for the _Ballets Russes_.

The scene is divided sharply by the steep shelf of a _wadi_ that runs diagonally right-to-left.

Bottom-left: A shrouded traveller, who has made camp beside the meagre water-source, lifts himself up on his elbows. His features are faintly illuminated by the fading flicker of a campfire in the shadows.

Top-right: Above and beyond the shelf, the desert stretches eastward to a horizon where two narrow shafts of intense red-gold light herald the dawn.

An Afrit hovers just above the lip of the shelf, looking down at the traveller. It takes the form of a hunter, clad only in belt and loin-guard of beast-pelt, and soft desert boots. The sun's rays catch the tumbled gold of the hair, but leave its features in shadow


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Les Noyades_ is a poem by A C Swinburne concerning two lovers (actually it was only ONE lover; the female NOT necessarily reciprocating) who were executed by being tied together and thrown into the river during the French Revolution. Nice!
> 
> 2\. The reference to elephants and razor-blades dates back to the period when "elephant" jokes were all the rage. Joke:_ What is the definition of "pain"?_ Ans: _An elephant sliding down a razor-blade using its balls as a brake._ Ouch!
> 
> 3\. Cuchulainn is the hero of the Ulster cycle of myths; and is known in Ireland and the Gaelic parts of Scotland. His death is essentially as described in the painting, although Maeve of Connacht was behind the whole plot.

**Title: IN TOW   
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Henry Strachan/Hugh Farren  
**Rating**: Hot  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

_'I said, "My God, Farren, is that you?" and he said, "What the hell do you want?" So I caught hold of him.'_

Strachan in _Five Red Herrings_. Ch. Title: _Strachan's Story_

_"I know he talked and talked and tried to get hold of me, and I struggled and fought him. It was a lovely fight ….."_

Farren in _Five Red Herrings_. Ch. Title: _Farren's Story_

* * * *

**Part 7: Henry's Story**

Henry received the solid frozen bulk of Hugh's buttocks and thighs, flush against his stomach as he folded his length around the shorter man.

The icy flesh was in fact rather bracing. He allowed himself to relax into the solid weight of Hugh, spooned within the cave of his own torso; cold, but sweet as last night's firelit idyll.

"This is nice!" announced Hugh sleepily.

"Imph'mmmm!" he breathed; and allowed his hand to drift lightly over the curve of Hugh's hip-bone.

"Does that hurt?" he whispered.

"A bit … inwards! Then it will!"

Henry obliged; sliding his palm between their bodies until he was cupping one buttock, hand trapped between Hugh's body and his own groin. Hugh inhaled sharply.

"Wonderful!" he murmured.

Henry blew lightly over Hugh's exposed nape, and felt a responsive shudder. Letting go of the arse-cheek, he allowed his hand to drift up and over the ridged hip into the dipped groin and across to where Hugh's cock was slowly rising to greet the morning.

"Turn around, Hugh!" he ordered into the curled conch of the ear nestled amongst the riot of blond tangles.

Hugh sighed again, and moved sluggishly to comply. The smoke-blue eyes gazed into his, like a summer dawn across Luce Bay.

"Henry – this is real, isn't it?"

"What?" asked Strachan, caught unawares.

"This isn't Guelda! And you're not The Man. This is just you and me, isn't it? How wonderful! All this time … my best friend in all the world … just … gently this time, Hal; and who KNOWS what might happen ….? "

"Wait!" cried Henry in startled realisation, "This isn't what I intended, Hugh …"

Hugh's eyes, so close now as to swim into his vision as one huge Cyclopean orb, bored into him. He drew back, and glimpsed the mouth – so often pouted in discontent – relaxing into a transcendent smile.

"Then why inaugurate it? I'm awake now, and ready! And so .." here Hugh reached across to brush his blunt fingertips lightly over his groin, " … are you! It's a good idea, Hal; after our quarrel!"

"You haven't called me Hal since Verdun!"

Hugh's smile widened until it was both diabolical and a bit sheepish.

"It was _King_ Hal actually, behind your back, Major!"

"WHAT?!"

"That was me; but the lads rather took to it!"

"I'll wager they did! Of all the provoking …..!"

"NOW, Hal! Just … do it! Me and you! And be damned to Guelda; and Gilda; and Milly; and possibly even pretty little Myra. Has it occurred to you that we pre-date all of that? Do it – and I swear I'll create SUCH a work! Just for you …!"

"Hugh, you don't need to bribe me! And I'm not going to thrash you in spite of the insubordination and unparalleled cheek …."

"Yes, be damned to that too! It's Guelda's business, not ours!"

"Good – so long as that's understood! I need to ready you, Hugh; and then, I want it face-to-face, and forget about that bitch Guelda!"

"I thought," replied Hugh seraphically, "You'd never ask!"

* * * *

**Part 8: Hugh's Story**

It was almost, thought Hugh, as if he'd succeeded in lassoing Guelda and The Man; and had bundled them (tied face-to-face like the doomed lovers from _Les Noyades_) into some private, smothering _oubliette_, to be released when called for!

The image excited him, as he measured his length against Hal's impressive six-foot-two; half-aware that this time, he might have the upper – the whip – hand, for all his lesser height! At least the breadth of these shoulders he'd been lamenting last night ensured parity if it ever came – thrillingly – to another rough-and-tumble!

Hal, however, appeared more intent on something much milder as he pulled Hugh into an all-enveloping hug, carefully adjusting his long limbs so that the two of them finished up neatly cock-to-cock.

That would be fun; although perhaps a little insubstantial! Hugh, pulling Hal's head down to catch the morning-scratchiness of an unshaven kiss, took the opportunity to inflict a sharp nip on the other man's lower lip with his teeth. Hal disengaged, startled; and Hugh nibbled his way up the rough jawline.

"You could get me ready now!" he suggested, reaching an ear at last.

"Hm? You sting like a wasp, Hugh. I can see I shall have to watch my step with you!"

"You can't just flog me into submission, if that's what you mean!" breathed Hugh provocatively.

Hal sighed.

"_Prima donna_! I suppose this should prompt me to ask – what DO you want, Hugh?"

"Oh, I think I should take some of the burden, Hal. So how's this – you get me ready; and I'll .. ahem .. prepare you too. And then you lie back and leave everything to me! After all, you've gone to a great deal of trouble and expense. I should at least make an effort …."

"What? Oh – very well!" replied Hal hesitantly, "After all, you're my best friend, and I trust you, Hugh."

"Of course you do, Hal," replied Hugh softly, "Of course you do!"

* * * *

"How ever did you come to know about this?" gasped Hal.

Hugh smiled in what he hoped was an enigmatic manner. They were seated upright, Hugh- impaled – in Hal's lap; Hal's back cushioned against the headboard. He wasn't about to explain about 'the reverse missionary-position' (as Gilda was wont to describe it), nor his obscure tantric researches conducted in a shabby bookshop in Glasgow – the one with a backroom smelling of patchouli that contained occult tomes with 'curious' illustrations.

"Just natural talent, Hal!" he therefore responded, wriggling experimentally to balance the sword-thrust agony of the entry with the regular stiletto-jabs of pure sensation, now that they'd attained a slightly jagged rhythm between them.

"Oh CHRIST!" muttered Hal, "I don't think I've ever ….. I shan't last, Hugh!"

By way of answer, Hugh locked his ankles high on the other man's waist and, arms wound heavily around Hal's neck, lifted his torso as high as it would go.

"You don't have to, Hal!" he whispered; and let go the tension in thighs, calves, shoulders and scrotum.

Sliding heavily down the length of Hal's cock like an elephant on a razor-blade, Hugh felt the resultant explosion in head, spine and loins. It was like the sun's corona at full-eclipse; a breakout of unbearable light from the contained and surrounding umbra.

He thought he might have screamed; and was damn sure afterwards, that Hal, pulsing deep into his guts, had done so too.

* * * *

**From: Notes for an Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose**

**#11: The Death of Cuchulainn at the Standing Stone** (large oil on canvas with elaborate, custom-made frame. Privately owned; not for sale.)

This major work illustrates the tale of Cuchulainn's final stand. Mortally wounded by Lugaid's spear-cast through the belly, Cuchulainn ties himself to a standing stone in order that he may die on his feet, defying his enemies to the last.

The notably short, squat stone is shown in some detail – centre right – with Pictish carvings visible on its surface. The nude figure of the dying hero is sprawled backwards over it, his head thrown back, eyes closed, in an ecstatic pose reminiscent of several martyrdom-depictions. His long yellow hair trails down, appearing at some points to be growing into the stone. His right arm is raised, and the hand, still clutching his sword, rests on his shoulder. A burst of hero-light haloes his head.

Lugaid, advancing to take the customary trophy-head, leans over him so closely that they almost appear to be embracing, his sword held (somewhat improbably for a decapitating blow) in a low _en garde_ position.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Gilda's remembered words to Lord Peter are taken from _Five Red Herrings_, Ch. title: _Farren's Story_
> 
> 2\. The words of the **Conclusion** are based closely upon those appearing in _Five Red Herrings_ Ch. title: _Campbell Dead_

**Title: IN TOW   
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Gilda Farren, Miss Margaret Selby (cameo), Matthew Gowan (cameo), Henry Strachan, Hugh Farren, Angus Mackay Fraser (OMC)  
**Rating**: Angst-ridden and vengeful  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

_"… you must believe me. I know my husband. He is impulsive but with him everything blows over very quickly.."_

Gilda Farren's estimation of her husband from _Five Red Herrings_ Ch. Title: _Constable Ross_

_"Yet they're both Guelder Rose."_

A line from _Guelder Rose_; in _Flower Fairies of the Trees_ by Cicely Mary Barker.

* * * *

**Part 9: Gilda's Story**

It was now six months since Sandy Campbell's untimely demise. Gilda wondered if anyone else in the Stewartry would remember this demi-versary.

March was stealing in like a lion in lamb's clothing; and a mild, misty dampness had permeated all things, including Gilda's hoard of un-spun wool.

She shook a fastidious head over the gently-steaming mounds of fleece; and spent a fruitless morning piling them in front of the woodstove in the kitchen. There would be no spinning today; and her stock of thread was dwindling fast.

The lack was annoying because she'd had a rather daring idea for some woven wall-hangings on a marine theme in misty green-blues and foamy, white-tipped turquoise.

A scant hour served to complete the outstanding commissions, using such stocks of dyed thread as she had in store, and (Jeanie having been dispatched to the fish market) Gilda felt that her domestic duties were complete. However, the hiatus occasioned by the damp wool left her shiftless, aimless and in need of a new direction.

Hugh was away again. The house seemed more forlorn and empty than ever before. Since that wretched business last summer, her husband often seemed somehow _absent_, even when at home.

It was discouraging. And it hurt!

Gilda squared her shoulders as she donned the ruinously expensive woolen winter coat she had finally indulged herself with this last winter. Teamed with a self-woven scarf and floppy beret in matching sunset-tones, it really looked quite chic.

She would visit Jeanie's brother-in-law's warehouse; and replenish her store of raw wool a little early! After all, she thought, a trifle defiantly, she bore her share of household expenses (somewhat over-the-odds, if truth be known), and was perfectly entitled to the materials of her craft!

* * * *

Halfway to the Harbour, Gilda encountered a rather tattered poster stuck to a convenient street-lamp. Normally she would have passed by, but the name - Guelder-Rose – so like her own, caught her eye, and she stopped to peruse it.

**LAST CHANCE!!  
Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose**

The **GUELDER ROSE** exhibition at Kirkcudbright Museum and Art Gallery.  
**MUST** close Friday, preparatory to moving to Kelvingrove, Glasgow.

See this unique blend of whimsey and the darker side of Our Island Heritage whilst it's still in town!

* * * *

What the reviewers are saying:

_"A new star on the Kircudbright horizon?"_ (Stewartry Evening News)  
_"Enchanting!"_ (Nova Keltica)  
_"Faerie with Frisson!"_ (Gallovidian)  
_"WHO IS GUELDER ROSE? Mystery artist to exhibit at Kelvingrove!"_ (Glasgow Clarion)

Beneath the rubric was a tiny but exquisite rendition of a Dulac-esque faerie-tale princess, wound into a briar bush.

Gilda stared intently for a few moments. How had such an important exhibition passed her notice? It was true that she and Hugh no longer attended Bob Anderson's inexhaustible get-togethers, after that falling-out with Henry Strachan last autumn. Even after Hugh and Strachan had apparently resolved their differences, regular visits to Bob's had not been resumed,

Or at least; thought Gilda suddenly; not by HER! Regretfully she had to admit that she saw so little of Hugh nowadays that it might be perfectly possible for him to make any number of visits without her knowledge.

She found herself staring once again at the poster in disquiet; and on impulse, abandoned her market visit, turning her delicate steps Museum-wards instead.

* * * *

The Small Gallery, paneled and anodyne (except for a shallow curtained alcove in one corner, adjacent to the unobtrusive door marked "Private") was moderately full of visitors when Gilda arrived.

She murmured a respectful greeting to Mr Gowan – restored now to the full pomp and splendour of his renewed beard; and was soon nabbed by Miss Margaret Selby with the light of combat in her handsome grey eyes.

"Gilda! It's been an AGE! Where've ye been hiding yourself? What do ye think of Kirkcudbright's latest artistic sensation, m'dear? Are ye enchanted, like all the silly men?"

"I – I hardly know! I haven't seen …. "

"It's disgraceful! All this secrecy! A recluse, forsooth! And what's more the Invisible Hussy (that's how she's known in Blue Gate Close, my dear) dares to claim to be 'an illustrator'! Poor Mary's distraught – though she tries to hide it, of course! The Hussy might at least have paid a call, and EXPLAINED that she might encroach on Mary's territory (so to speak!). Really, m'dear, it's rampant Capitalism! Enough indeed to make us turn Socialist … and us good Liberals all this while ……."

"Vexing!" agreed Gilda distractedly, "So who … who IS this Guelder Rose?"

"Well isn't that JUST what I was trying to tell ye?" replied Miss Selby, exasperated, "No-one knows! It's been the talk of Bob's for weeks. The artist is reported to be "a recluse", discovered by Henry Strachan – of all people! Well really, m'dear, I'd have thought you'd know ALL about it, considering how close your man is to Strachan these days!"

"Oh, Hugh and I understand one another!" murmured Gilda distractedly falling back on this fine old bromide.

The remark caused Miss Selby to glance sharply at her. When the artist spoke again, she was back to her usual brisk self.

"Of course! I do hope ye're better now! Hugh told us ye were indisposed last Sunday, at Bob's!"

"What? Oh – yes – much better, thank you. I thought I should come and see what all the fuss about!"

"Well," replied Miss Selby sourly, "They'll sting ye a bob for The Notes, if ye want them. Over there at the desk! Come to Bob's tonight, and give us your opinion, if ye feel up to it!"

"Thank you! I might just do that!" Gilda stuck stubbornly to The Decencies, "Goodbye, Margaret!"

Miss Selby's taken-aback expression told her that she'd been overly brusque. Too late now! The artist had taken her leave, a speculative look in her sharp eyes.

Gilda recklessly expended a shilling on The Notes; and painstakingly began to wend her way through the exhibition, following its dictates with exactitude; neither deviating nor swooping off for untimely, out-of-due-order viewing.

* * * *

Gilda arrived at the labyrinthine conclusion to the riotous journey in the curtained alcove. Ah! Here – at last – was the only full-sized canvas, depicting _The Death of Cuchulainn at the Standing Stone_.

As with many of the other works here, it assaulted the senses like an overblown damask rose; a stupefaction of perfume and erotically unfurling petals.

The exhibition generally had offended her sense of normalcy and cool orderliness. However, the eerie sense of half-familiarity with the technique and with the symbolic LANGUAGE, had given her a sly sense of CONNIVANCE with the pieces. She felt somehow akin to the wellsprings of this lush creativity; and knew exactly where and how it had arisen; both from within the local landscape with its myths and legends, and the camaraderie of the artists, fishermen, womenfolk who inhabited the area.

And she an Incomer; and English to boot!

At this complicated moment, the outer door burst open.

"Hugh! Are you there, man? I've got SUCH news!"

Instinctively, Gilda shrank back into the curtain-shrouded recesses of the alcove, and watched as Henry Strachan bounded through the gallery to the private door just opposite her retreat.

Strachan flung open the door and plunged in; only to collide with Hugh in the doorway. He laughed breathlessly, and steadied himself on her husband's wide shoulders.

What is it, Hal?" Hugh freed himself, and peered around nervously, "I thought I heard Gilda's voice out here, just now!"

"The place is empty! I met Margaret Selby on the doorstep; and I believe The Great Gowan might have been sailing statelily out from here too! Wonder what HE made of Guelder Rose, eh?"

"Hmm!" Gilda could tell that Hugh was still distracted, "I wonder what GILDA would make of it – if she were here! I'm damn glad I didn't put that Other canvas in, now!"

"Well, I'm sorry you didn't! It was – is – a great piece of work in my opinion! It should go to Kelvingrove, Hugh! It would balance out the other! Do you have it handy, or is it at the Other Place?"

"It's here in my studio. But …n-no! Best not! It's too – obvious! People might start making connections! I'm not sure that Jock Graham hasn't, already! He's so damn sharp he's going to cut his own throat one of these days!"

"Why? What did he say?"

"That all the auburn-haired figures reminded him of Gilda!"

"ANYONE might think that, who knows your wife, Hugh! You worry too much!"

"It's the dark side of the excitement of it all, Hal. Anyway – what did you want to tell me?"

"What? Oh, yes! I've just been to collect the correspondence from Guelda's Post Office Box. Here – read this! No – on second thoughts, let ME read it to you! I want to be the one to break the news!"

"Alright!" said Hugh equably

* * * *

_'Dear Madam_

_We are publishers of literary works by Scottish writers; and are fortunate to number among our clients several rising young poetic stars, including Angus Mackay Fraser, of whom you may have heard._

_By happy chance, he has visited the exhibition at Kirkcudbright, and professes himself enchanted by your work, which he describes as exquisite._

_He is wishful to make use of your talent as illustrator of his latest anthology (provisionally entitled:_ "The Cry of the Kelpie; the Blast of the Freighter"_) which, he contends, has a particular resonance with the work you are doing._

_May I therefore meet you, or (since I understand that you do not go out into Society) your representatives, to discuss such matters as the number of illustrations and the question of remuneration. Perhaps the occasion of your exhibition at Kelvingrove might prove propitious, since our offices can be found adjacent to St Enoch Station? _

_Our telephone number is above; or you may write to us suggesting any date convenient to yourself or your representatives._

_I enclose copies of two of Mackay Fraser's latest works, chosen by himself as being of possible particular interest to you. Should you feel inspired by either or both of them, we should, of course, be delighted to hear – or indeed see – any ideas._

_I am   
Yours very sincerely  
Aiden A McAlistair  
Senior Partner  
Caledonian-Muse Publications  
Osborne Street  
Glasgow'_

* * * *

Hugh was looking suddenly frightened, like a child who has taken mischief one step too far.

"Hal – this is going too fast for me! Suppose this Mackay-whatever wants a private meeting? He's every right to ask, you know!"

"Nonsense, Hugh! We'll give him the regular 'recluse' story – of course we will!"

"Hal – you don't understand! I think he may have a _pash_ – fellow-artists, soul-mates; all that kind of thing!"

"Hugh! There's money – a LOT of it – in this! Oh – not so much the ardent poet himself; but more within the world of publishing. Just think – suppose this McAlistair character decides to reprint Walter Scott; or publish a new edition of the big ballads?"

Hugh looked unhappy.

"I don't know, Hal! This is …. all part of our private life ….. Even this exhibition was part of the fun – the Big Secret and everything! I'd hate to give all that up – you KNOW that!"

"Of course!" replied Strachan hastily, "There's no question of that!"

He reached out and pulled her husband into a brief, fierce embrace.

"There's absolutely no QUESTION of that!" he repeated vehemently, "And we'll find a way to deal with the lovelorn poet …."

"But we NEED a Guelder Rose, Hal! If only Gilda …… "

"Don't be a fool, Hugh!"

Within the dusty, comforting, velvet folds of the faded crimson curtain, Gilda trembled. Some people – notably Lord Peter Wimsey – may have considered her a stupid woman; but she had grasped the essentials of THIS situation without any difficulty at all.

* * * *

Her heart was still vibrating and sending tremors to the far corners of her body, as she let herself back into the cottage. The two … _lovebirds_, she thought spitefully … had repaired to the McClellan Arms to thrash the matter out in comfort over a wee dram or two; thus freeing her from the stifle of curtain and overblown emotion in the gallery.

Hesitantly she approached the closed door of Hugh's studio. It was not somewhere she visited without invitation usually; recognising Hugh's need for private creative space.

Her mind was immediately waylaid by the film of dust that covered everything. She was, in fact, so outraged by the neglected work-ethic that it was several moments before it dawned on her that Hugh had not been producing any work here for a considerable time. Only his rods, nets and creels showed signs of regular use – presumably during PART of those endless Friday-night fishing expeditions with Strachan.

In the corner behind all the gear, she spied what she had come to find – a canvas-carrier with something strapped into it.

Even now, she stopped to cock a guilty ear for any sign of an arrival, as she wrestled with buckles and leather. Eventually the stretched canvas was freed. She tussled with it for a few breathless moments, since it had already been heavily framed. Finally she raised and set it on a neglected easel. A sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

Gilda stared for some time at the unnatural aberration that Hugh had created from herself and him – their nude bodies commingled into a hermaphroditic mish-mash. What had her husband been THINKING?

Finally, she addressed the paper; and read her fate within the explanatory note.

* * * *

**~~Notes for an Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works by Guelder Rose~~ (NOT for exhibition)**

 

#? **_Yet They're Both Guelder Rose: an End and a Beginning_** (Large oil on canvas, with custom-made frame)

Handwritten note: 'Companion-piece to _Death of Cuchulainn_'

In the absolute darkness of the void a two-headed hermaphrodite crouches over a pair of golden Icarus-wings lying discarded at its feet, The figure is nude, revealing a vertical gender divide – right side female; left side male.

The female head possesses an almost Burne-Jonesian delicacy of feature, with large, green expressive eyes, and long auburn hair bound loosely into a great knot at the nape of the neck. It is shown in profile, gazing intently at its companion-head.

The male is blond; hair in disarray and partially entwined with one long auburn lock, escaped from the female's coiffure. The eyes are unusual; a pale – almost transparent – shade of smoky blue-grey (gorm in the Gaelic). They gaze direct at the viewer, in seeming defiance. The delicacy of the upper face is echoed in the pursed mouth; but contradicted by the heaviness of the jaw and a suggestion of musculature at neck and shoulder.

The male's hand grasps a burning flambeau which is stretched over the discarded wings, with the obvious intent of destroying them. A sense of failure, and of a violent ending, pervades the whole composition.

* * * *

Quietly, numbly, Gild re-entered the exhibition. She must see it all again – really LOOK at it now - imbued with the monstrous knowledge of the final painting. (She'd briefly considered bringing it with her and leaving it exposed in the alcove with the Cuchulainn; but the smashed mosaic of her heart had refused to co-operate).

_"I should certainly not make a scene,"_ she had told Lord Peter Wimsey, and – _"It is nothing to me what he chooses to do with himself."_

Now – since she would, as ever, try to pretend that nothing untoward was afoot - she must believe those angry words; stubbornly believe, until she made them come true.

A close scrutiny of each painting revealed which of the auburn-haired women were herself, and which an androgynous parody based on Hugh himself. Strachan was obvious in the many figures of power – Dis, The Blaeberry King – scattered throughout the works.

She had no idea how to face Hugh with her knowledge; or how to go on if she did not.

"Excuse me?"

It was a moment before Gilda realised she was being addressed. Turning hastily, she gained an impression of someone with a stolid frame and bright red hair. For a split second, she thought she recognised Sandy Campbell, and fell back with a frightened cry.

"Did I startle ye? I'm gey soory tae be troublin' ye wi' no proper introdooction at a', but I hae tae ask ye – are ye Guelder Rose?"

"What?" said Gilda faintly; then pulling her depleted defenses around her, asked belligerently – "Who wants to know?"

"Beg pardon Ma'am. Ma name's Angus an' …."

"… and you are the poet who wants some illustrations!"

He wasn't much like Sandy Campbell really. He was younger, and unspoiled, with no signs of poetic dissipation yet. Maybe they didn't drink absinthe and smoke opium these days. She regarded him as he explained hesitantly what she already knew.

And an idea formed. A revenge so choice that it frightened her and emboldened her both at the same time. She took a deep breath. Strachan would hate her for it; she thought. But one must endure that.

"Mr Mackay Fraser …"

"T'is juist Fraser i' real life, Ma'am. The rest is publeecity, ye ken! An' ye micht ca' me Angus, if ye will!"

We're all liars and hypocrites; she thought wildly; so why not?

"Angus then! And I am Gilda Farren. I should tell you straight away that Guelder Rose is a kind of consortium – a commune, if you like. My husband Hugh is the artist. He does work – very different work – under his own name; but this is a sort of … experiment, I suppose. His … friend Henry Strachan provides the business _nous_; and," she concluded only semi-falsely, "I was the Muse!"

The poet looked somewhat taken-aback. Gilda risked an encouraging smile.

"I'm sorry if it wasn't what you thought, Mr … Angus. But I am sure that – between us – we could do some interesting things. This sort of mixed-creativity has always fascinated me; although my talent lies more in crafts than arts. Would a collaboration be out of the question?"

"Na, na, not at a'! I waur juist – surprised!"

"I'm sure you were! Now, what I propose is this! The other … conspirators are in the McClellan Arms. Why don't you and I join them? I'm sure we can – between us all – work out some kind of accommodation!"

As the poet assented with increased enthusiasm, and walked with her through the outer doors, Gilda experienced a rather dreary sense of triumph which she knew she must now rely upon to see her through the coming darkness.

* * * *

**Conclusion**

[The next scene follows inevitably upon the last; but as the intelligent reader will readily supply this for themself, it is omitted from this page]


	7. APPENDIX:  Notes on the "Nameless Castle", and on the origins of the Exhibition pieces

**Title: IN TOW: Appendix. Notes on the "Nameless Castle", and on the origins of the Exhibition pieces  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is homage. Don't sue!

* * * *

**The "Nameless Castle"**

I had in mind Laurieston Hall, which is very close to Gatehouse. There's an article with pics here:

<http://gen.ecovillage.org/iservices/publications/articles/Laurieston%20Hall%20PM42.pdf>

Strachan relied on the sense-deprivation effect of the blindfold (beneath the goggles) and ear-smothering helmet, to disorient Hugh's time-and-space perception. However, he ALSO took a wide detour, almost to Dumfries and back before finally arriving at Laurieston the first time.

Since 1972 Laurieston has housed a community dedicated to alternative lifestyle and self-sustainability. I haven't traced who owned it in the 1920s/30s, but have assumed it was privately owned; that Strachan knew the owners, and was thus able to hire the tower (which is above the stables - to the right in the panoramic picture at the end of the article); and pay for meals to be delivered.

He further expended a great deal to set-up the studio and master-bedroom; bringing in a number of exotic fittings (and of course, the clichéd black silk bed-linen – Henry is nothing if not a traditionalist).

* * * *

**Pictures at an Exhibition**

The _Exhibition of Mythical and Magickal Works_ contained, of course, more pieces than the ones that are described in the narrative, which are tied to particular events.

Taking them in the order in which they first appear, here are the influences, with links where appropriate:

**The Abduction of Persephone in the Field of Poppies**

The artist made use of a local hill-formation – the Clints of Dromore for the far-distance. - <http://www.gatehouse-of-fleet.co.uk/DLSayers_exhibition3.htm>  
The poppy field may have a slight flavour of van Gogh.

The figures in the foreground are Beardsley-esque with Dis, in particular highly reminiscent of Beardsley's Siegfried - <http://www.museumsyndicate.com/item.php?item=1531>

The exception is the fabulous beast, which owes something to the robots in Fritz Lang's film _Metropolis_ (released 1927) and also to Blake's Geryon <http://danteworlds.laits.utexas.edu/gallery/0929geryon.jpg>

**Frozen Desire**

This is a fairly straight description of part of _The Evil Mothers_ by Giovanni Segantini. It's a totally disturbing piece, and can be found in the Belvedere, Vienna.

<http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Giovanni_Segantini_004.jpg>

**The Blaeberry King**

Blaeberry is the local name for what we knew in the SW as the whortleberry, a moorland wild blueberry. It thus contrasts with the bramble or blackberry.

The work overall resembles one of Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience –   
<http://library.uncg.edu/depts/speccoll/exhibits/Blake/songs_of_experience.html>

However, the central verse is based on Cicely Mary Barker's Flower Fairies. There's also a touch of the Scottish ballad _Fause Foodrage_, in which the Westmuir King is the villain.

**Firelight and Dawn**

This is Guelda's tribute to Leon Bakst, the main costume/set designer for the _Ballets Russes_.

I really wanted some of the _Scheherazade_ designs, but I'm sure this - <https://www.1st-art-gallery.com/Leon-%28samoilovitch%29-Bakst/St.-Sebastian,-From-The-Martyr-Of-St.-Sebastian,-C.1911-22-%282%29.html>

\- would have resonated with Guelda as well!

**The Death of Cuchulainn at the Standing Stone**

This one is anachronistic, in that it was inspired more by poster and graffiti art, and a pack of divinatory cards than anything contemporary with the story (although I guess the statue of dying Cuchulainn in the famous Dublin Post Office might have been known in 1930) - <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cuchulain_at_GPO.jpg>

However, this graffito, photographed on a Belfast wall, came the closest to what I had in mind - <http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/mccormick/photos/no667r.jpg>

And the standing stone is based on an image by Nigel Pennick in _The Celtic Oracle_. I can't find the image, but it was based on some of the Pictish stones, and was carved with spirals.

**The Poster- footer**

Dulac was an illustrator of folk and fairy-tales. This one might be similar to the small vignette at the bottom of the Guelder Rose advertising poster that Gilda sees.

<http://www.artpassions.net/cgi-bin/dulac_image.pl?../galleries/dulac/poe/dulac_lenore_ap.jpg>

 

**Yet They're Both Guelder Rose**

The original Cicely Mary Barker Guelder Rose picture is here –  
<http://www.fairy-prints.co.uk/x_guelder_rose.htm>

However, the piece described is a variant on a gouache in my possession which has never appeared publicly.

It is basically as described, except that the wings are a "flying robe" which is about to be set on fire. The female-half of the hermaphrodite is much more Neanderthal-looking than the Gilda-portrait appearing in the story.


End file.
